


Love from Beyond the Veil

by messofthejess



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Ghosts, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 20:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofthejess/pseuds/messofthejess
Summary: Lucy and Natasha are always watching over their sons, particularly on Valentine's Day.





	Love from Beyond the Veil

**Lucy**

When the Veil is thick, we have no choice but to walk between walls. Hover over our loved ones while they carry on living, and offer whispers of encouragement when they need them most. There are times when I try to reach for the other side, only to be held back by a force I cannot see. We’re forbidden from interfering too much with life.

My rosebud boy. I don’t hover over him, because he’s been through so much; he doesn’t need the added lingering feeling of being watched and not being able to find a pair of eyes when he turns around. But I want so badly to hold him. He’s almost a grown man, but I want to cradle him like I got to do for a few wonderful weeks when he was a baby, before the pain grew to be too much and took me. His nightmares have been worse since Christmas, and waking up alone is terrifying when dragon wings block out all the light. I have to let him manage on his own, though.

It’s been good for him to be at Mitali’s house. She’s not there much as she used to be, what with her new position, but the combination of frenzy and routine that comes with living with the Bunces gives Simon a sense of what it means to be home rather than in a home. (I still hate Davy for that, for dumping him in care instead of taking him under his wing.)

Speaking of which, I should go see Mitali. I always make a point of visiting friends on Valentine’s Day.

I drift along the corridors inside Watford, watching the students shuffle and chase each other under the pink and red streamers and foil hearts strung up for this day. Although I haven’t aged a day since my death, it feels like centuries have passed since I was down there among them, walking with Davy. Bantering with Mitali and Martin. Watching Fiona, the headmistress’s sister and two years younger than I, act like an absolute punk with her scrubby friends. So many memories dwell here.

I’m so used to having to go through the rigmarole of entering the headmistress’s office (Davy got called in there quite often; I usually volunteered to escort him back to class) that I forget I can simply pass through without a second thought. Sure enough, Mitali is sitting at the desk in a jumper and joggers, headmistress robes thrown over the back of her office chair while she squints at her computer screen. And floating right behind her is the most imposing headmistress Watford has ever known: Natasha Grimm-Pitch.

Maybe _imposing_ is a bit unfair. We’ve known each other for some time now—you bump into all sorts when you’re behind the Veil—and we’ve become something like friends. There’s still a bit of distance between us, what with her having been in charge of Watford while I was there. Some people never lose that edge of authority, even in death.

“I wish I could have had the opportunity to use one of these,” Natasha mutters, ducking down to look at the computer with Mitali. “They’ve advanced so much in fourteen years.”

“You could always try when she’s not here,” I offer.

She glances up at me. “As if that hasn’t crossed my mind. Unfortunately, I think new technology tends to fritz when ghosts play with it. Still…”

Natasha always pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable for us ghosts. Reading books in the dark recesses of the library so no student sees them floating. Sitting in on lectures and heaving loud, deep sighs when she’s too bored with the professor. Following along with students practicing their spellwork and sometimes adjusting their wand hands midair so they make the right motions. I’ve never seen her get repelled by the Veil doing any of this, which makes me think the Veil cares more about intention than action. If you want to help the living or cause general chaos, fine. But the ghosts who are more malicious are stripped away to the barest huffs of anger after a long enough time—only a few are clever enough to become real poltergeists.

“Have you said hello to Baz yet?” I ask.

“No. I’m taking my time today.” Natasha’s eyes go dark. “Valentine’s Day hasn’t always been kind to him.”

“It’ll be different this year, I bet. He has someone.”

“This is true.”  

Finding out our sons were in love and in a long-distance relationship (if the distance from Watford to Hounslow counts as long distance) was surprising. We felt the reverberation from Simon’s sacrifice of magic throughout the entire Veil, and when all was stable enough to where we felt comfortable to walk again, Baz and Simon were clinging to one another as though nothing could tear them apart. Mitali very nearly _did_ have to spell them away from each other when it was time to clean up the mess after Davy’s death. (I haven’t seen Davy on the other side yet. Most of me hopes I never do.) And although Baz returned to school when Christmas break ended, there hasn’t been a day where he hasn’t talked to Simon.

“Come on, let’s go to Mummers’. It’s exciting for me to finally get in there now.”

“It’s as unremarkable as the other dormitories,” Natasha shrugs, reluctantly drifting away from the computer. “Would still love to know how Mitali managed to break that ward to let herself in.”

“That’s a secret she never shared with me. Come _on_ , now you’re just procrastinating.” I reach for her hand, dragging her along toward the door and back out to Watford proper. “He’ll be happy to feel your presence, even if he can’t see you.”

**Natasha**

I wish I had half of Lucy’s boundless optimism. Fiona used to call me a wet blanket—among other things that are far too crass to repeat—and I suppose that’s a fair assessment. In life, as a headmistress and mother and wife, I always prepared for the worst. The glass was never half empty; it was already drained by someone who merely hadn’t thought to pick up the glass yet. By a sad twist of irony, _I_ was the one who ended up being drained. But Basilton…he lived.

Missing Basilton when the Veil was thin is one of my greatest regrets. Now I’ll have to wait until he’s nearly forty for him to see me again. To hang around him now, while he’s young and just beginning his life, feels so intrusive. I don’t want him to live as though I’m watching over his shoulder—I only want him to live as he wants to, in any way that pleases him.

We fly together, Lucy and me, through the school and over the grounds toward Mummers’ Hall, then right through the open window at the top of the turret. I hear Baz grumble about the cold breeze before I even lay eyes on him.

“No, nothing, just the wind coming in on my neck is all,” he says into his mobile. His eyebrows push together as he listens to whoever is on the other end. “Of course I keep it open, Snow. You insisted on leaving the fucking thing open for seven and a half years, and I got used to freezing.” More jabbering on the other end. His face softens into the same smile I saw Malcolm wear countless times while we were married. “Yes, I’m wearing a thick jumper. Can’t go around like you do, shirtless all the time.”

“He absolutely adores Simon, doesn’t he?” Lucy sighs, also smiling.

“When Pitches are in love, their magic burns brighter within themselves. Can you see it?” I point to the spot just below the dip in Baz’s clavicle, where the core of every magician resides. Where there once was a pile of embers when he was a little boy, before he uttered a single spell, there’s now a roaring fire radiating through his chest. “I would say the answer is yes.”

“It’s so _sweet_.”

“Also our love magic tends to burn the object of our affections.”

Lucy’s eyes go wide. “Doesn’t that scare a fair load of people off?”

“If they aren’t prepared to handle the fire, how can they be expected to handle us?” This has been the unofficial Pitch family motto for centuries. If the ones we love are unable to get close without being burned by the intensity of our passion (which has happened—a few incidents are detailed quite colorfully in the family annals), then they can’t be near us on any level. Unfortunately, it’s also a comfortable excuse to be prickly and inflammatory, like my Baz can be.

He’s a soft boy, deep down. I saw his walls rise up over the years, a result of my death and Malcolm’s inability to cope. Baz only left a small window open with which to view the world, and Simon blundered right into his line of sight. Every Valentine’s Day was difficult: I would watch Baz scorch himself alive from within with unrequited love (other Pitches have met their end that way), especially after Simon took up with the Wellbelove girl. But this year, it will be different. He burns for a different reason.  

From what I’ve seen of Simon, he has a graceful heart. And he’s unshakably brave. I think he can be careful with my Baz.

“Fiona’s coming to pick me up in the MG. Yes, I know there isn’t a backseat…yes, she’s probably going to make me sit back there again.” Baz closes his eyes and pinches his nose. “Because you can’t get un-kidnapped by numpties, love. My aunt is very persistent about enforcing childish rules just for the banter.”

“I do like Simon, for the record,” I tell Lucy. Her shoulders release a little tension as soon as I say that. “He loves sour cherry scones as much as I do, if not more.”

“That can’t be the only reason you approve of him!”

“Of course not! But it’s certainly a deciding factor.” When I was a student here, everyone immediately snatched the sweet scones at tea every afternoon, and there would be a large stack of sour cherry ones left on the banquet tables. I suppose at first I grew to like them because they were the only option, but in later years I grew to appreciate them for their unique tangy flavor. That’s what we Pitches do: we love the things that are difficult for others to love.

Lucy rolls her eyes at me. “Unbelievable.”

“I’ve got to hang up now—” Baz says, setting his mobile down on the bed. “Because I can hardly pack my bag with one hand, that’s why. You’re a terrible distraction.”

“ _Could say the same thing about you!_ ” Simon yells through the speaker.

“Ah, but you won’t. You adore me.”

“ _I—yes, but you’ve got a wand. You know spells to fold your clothes!_ ”

“I can never get my pants done quite right, though. See you in an hour. _Je t’aime_.”

“ _You know I’m rubbish at French—_ ” Simon’s voice cuts off when Baz disconnects the call, still smiling softly at the black screen. He turns toward his desk, where a giant bouquet of pink and red roses sit in a vase, bright and plump as though they were freshly picked.

“ ** _And there was music and wonderful roses!_** ” he declares. The rose petals drip with dew, and some of those that had drooped stand up tall in the vase.

“That’s my son,” I beam. Nothing less than the best for his beloved.

Lucy sniffles next to me. “He cast a _song_ ,” she whispers. “A love song for the roses. Davy could…it’s so hard to cast songs.”

“Believe me, I know.” My chest wells with pride as Baz finishes packing away his things into his valise for the weekend, shrugs into his coat, and scoops up the bouquet in one arm. “But when you’re in love, so very much is possible.”

As he reaches for the doorknob, I give into my impulse. I brush my fingers along his cheekbone and back into his hair, tucking some behind his ear. He gazes over his shoulder, and for a brief moment, I worry that I’ve pushed the Veil too far and he can, in fact, see me. But then the smallest smile stretches across his face. He looks as though he’s about to reach back for my hand, until he turns and slips out the door toward his future.

**Lucy**

We give the boys space for the rest of the day. Natasha decides to follow the MG to Hounslow before reappearing in the dining hall at tea. It’s about half capacity, with most of the upper year students skipping out for dates outside Watford’s gate. Remembering my own school days, at least three of those students are going to get stuck outside for the night, thinking they can somehow fight the curfew. (Mitali and Martin did that once. She ended up ripping the gate off its hinges to get back inside.)

“They’ll be _fine_ ,” I reassure Natasha, who’s not so much drinking her tea as dunking the teabag in and out of her cup while staring into space.

“It’s only been two months since, well, everything. Baz just has so much invested in this relationship, and I don’t want it to—” She puts a fist to her mouth.

“Natasha, it’s not as if Baz went to propose. It’s just Valentine’s Day. They’ll go on a date, sure, and maybe they’ll go back to Mitali’s place and cuddle, but that’s the end of it. Another story added to the bigger story of their time together.”

I float a little closer to her and put my hand on her shoulder. “I know why you’re worried. Simon and Baz finally got together, and then the whole world as they knew it collapsed around their ears. You don’t know if they’ll survive this. I don’t pretend to know, either, but we have to hope for the best. Because hoping for the best is the first step toward making the best become true.”

Natasha blinks at me, setting her teabag dangle just over her cup. “Sometimes I forget you were ten years younger than me. You’re exceptionally insightful.”

“Only since I died. When I was alive, I was just blindly optimistic until it was too late for me to see otherwise.”

“Anyone could be taken in by Davy if they listen to him talk long enough. What he lacked in charisma, he made up for in a highly persuasive magical aura.” Natasha takes a sip of tea. “Had I stayed on as headmistress, I think I would have implemented some of the reforms he pushed so ardently for. Allowing in everyone who can speak with magic and the like.”

“Would you have allowed Simon in?”

“That’s not even a question. He has a magical mother and a…father. Any struggles he faces in learning here are a result of being too overburdened with the weight of the world, literally. Simon Snow might have issues fitting in, but Simon Salisbury? He would always have a place here at Watford.”

This comforts me in a way I can’t quite explain. (And she used my last name, not Davy’s. That gives me a secret thrill.)

We go to visit the boys one last time just before midnight. Simon usually sleeps on a cot in Penny’s room, but tonight he’s commandeered the bed with Baz, tangled up in each other. His tail twitches under the sheets, and the tips of Baz’s fangs poke out a little over his bottom lip every time he snores.

“You see? They’re absolutely wonderful,” I whisper, even though there’s no need. They can’t hear us on the other side of the Veil.

“I suppose they are. Although it looks like they did more than just cuddle.” Natasha points to Baz’s neck, where a darkening bruise is forming just above the collar of his pajama top.

“They’re teenagers, Nat.”

“I know.”

“You smell like butter,” Simon mutters, worming in closer to Baz’s chest.

Baz jerks awake. “What?”

“From the movie. You smell like the buttery popcorn.”

“Only because you threw some at me during one of the romantic parts.”

“’S like all my dreams ‘ve come true.” Simon shifts around and hugs his arm tighter around Baz’s waist.

“Go to sleep, love. You’re delirious.” Baz kisses Simon’s curls. “ _Je t’aime._ ”

“Love you, too, Baz.”

Baz gazes down at Simon with half-lidded amazement, unable to stop grinning as he falls back to sleep. Time for us to take our leave.

Good night, Simon. My rosebud boy.

 

**Natasha**

Good night, Basilton. My little puff.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really observed Valentine's Day in what I guess you'd call the traditional way. So here, have a ghost mom story. I hope you had a great Valentine's Day, no matter how you celebrate <3


End file.
